


Just a Simple Request

by Hoodoo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hesitant request, John gets an unexpected eyeful, Tell me more about THAT, knickers, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly has a simple sexual request of Sherlock. (Simple. Yeah, right.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Request

**Author's Note:**

> Established Sherlock and Molly relationship. She has a request of him; he surprises her with one of his own. John gets a surprise too, that he wishes he could expunge from his brain.

“Would you do something for me?”

Lying in bed—he was on his side, with his phone; she was beside him with a book she was obviously not reading—Sherlock barely nodded in acknowledgement.

“It’s . . . um . . . a little sexual,” Molly continued, with pauses.

Sherlock gave up on the phone and glanced over his shoulder at her.

“Would you like me to wear frilly knickers?”

Molly was not looking at him; she was staring very hard at her hands, obviously concentrating on how to form her sentence.

“No, I was thinking— _what_ did you just say?”

Sherlock waved it off. “Nothing. What did you want me to do?”

She finally looked over at him. “Do you _want_ to wear frilly knickers?”

He shook his head impatiently. “Molly, what did you want to ask me?”

“Oh! I . . . well. I was wondering . . .”

Sherlock tried not to be tetchy, but it was difficult.

“. . . I was wondering if I could . . . watch you masturbate?”

Of all the things he might have guessed she might say, that wasn’t even on the list.

“Watch me what?”

“. . . masturbate.”

Sherlock had to stop and truly think about her request. Finally he said, 

“I don’t do that.”

“You don’t masturbate?”

“No.”

Mollys embarrassment and hesitancy dropped away. “You don’t masturbate. Never? Ever?”

He sighed. “I have, but I don’t.”

The expression on her face was a combination of confusion, surprise, and disbelief. The pause of silence between them stretched. 

“So . . .” Molly finally hedged.

Sherlock turned flat on his back. 

“I can see by your expression you’d like to know why I don’t wank off?” he asked, then continued before she could answer. “I always found it pedantic. It seemed something that boys thought about too much and acted too ashamed of—something that occupied so much of my schoolmates’ brains that I thought they couldn’t possibly be as stupid and ordinary as they were—so I believed that masturbating was the cause of it.

“Plus the mess of it is a bit, well, messy as well,” he continued, as if checking a list off in his head. He paused for half a second before concluding, “I have masturbated. I’m not asexual! It’s simply not something I waste my time on. Especially now that you’re here—“

He cut himself off.

Molly was watching him with raised eyebrows. “Well, I’m glad I’m of some use to you—“

“That’s not what I meant—“ Sherlock said immediately.

She shushed him. “I’m not upset. I wasn’t going to ask about why you don’t have a wank . . . I was just going to ask again if you’d let me watch you.”

Sherlock thought for a long moment. “I’ll consider it,” he finally said.

“You could watch me, if you think that would help. Make you less embarrassed, or whatever.”

“I’m not embarrassed by it! It’s just so . . .” he trailed off without completing his sentence.

Molly laughed. “Unintelligent? Useless? Messy?”

He gave her a look, but it didn’t stop her laughter. 

“Well,” she finally said, “I’m glad you’re not embarrassed by masturbation.” 

“Good.”

“But I _would_ like to know more about this “frilly knickers” thing . . .”

***

Laundry was _not_ his responsibility. His laundry was, yes, of course, but no one else’s! But just as Mrs. Hudson had to repeatedly say, “I’m not your housemaid” and was still roped into cleaning or baking, somehow Sherlock’s dirty clothing ended up in John’s hamper, and then John washed it.

He was angry each and every time he pulled out that ridiculous purple shirt, or those trousers that had to be made for a cartoon stick figure because no normally built human male should be able to fit into them . . .

John’s internal rant about the laundry hit a stumbling block as he extracted a pair of ruffled, hot pink knickers from the basket.  
Immediately he flushed as rosy as the satin undergarment, even though he was alone in the flat. Now he had one more thing to shout at Sherlock about: He, Doctor John Watson, wasn’t supposed to be doing his, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, laundry, let alone Molly’s! 

At that very moment, Sherlock wandered down the stairs. Wrapped in his sheet—he was the only person John knew who lounged around the damn house all day in pajamas and a dressing gown, and then slept _naked,_ then insisted on moseying around in a _sheet_ until ordered to put on those _damn pajamas_ —he yawned a,

“Good morning,” to John before sitting down at his laptop and ignoring him further.

John had a full head of steam going. He was really going to let Sherlock have it this time—these knickers were the final straw—  


He closed his eyes tightly, gathered his thoughts (including conjectures on Sherlock’s ancestry), cleared his throat, and opened his eyes again. He’d actually drawn breath to begin his rant, when his gaze fell on something that choked him.

Sherlock’s sheet wasn’t wrapped completely around his back. An edge of it fell open, exposing the detective’s pale shoulder and back; it dipped low enough to expose his left hip. That narrow hip was clad in something satiny, something ruffled, something the exact same shade as the knickers crushed in John’s fist—

“Help you with something, John?” Sherlock asked over his shoulder. “You sounded as if you wanted to say something.”

“No. No. Nothing,” John croaked out.

He knew he didn’t sound normal. He didn’t care. Nothing was normal now.

Sherlock twisted to look back at him. John shoved his hands deep into the laundry basket to hide the fact he was holding a pair of . . . a pair of . . . oh sweet god . . . apparently a pair of Sherlock’s pants. Knickers. 

_Sherlock’s knickers._

He’d speak to Sherlock later about the laundry. Maybe Sherlock would just fold it himself, if it sat on the table and he wanted to complete an experiment or something. Right now, John was going upstairs to lie back down, and then, once he got up again, maybe he could start the whole day over.


	2. Fulfillment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to accomodate Molly's request.

Sherlock didn’t make much noise.

He wasn’t self-conscious, not really, but it was odd. Having a woman—anyone, really—watch you have a wank wasn’t something typical. Unless of course it was some kind of secret voyeurism or something, and then it seemed dirty and deviant. Even he knew that, and he knew very little about other people’s sex lives, except for what he’d read or happened to see glancing in through a window or overheard in the dorms or John, now.

But then again, Molly had specifically requested to watch him. She specifically requested that he do this, so did that make it deviant? If a voyeur explicitly asks the person being observed to do the thing the voyeur wants to see, does that make it less voyeuristic? Less odd? Then did it just become a more normal, shared experience? Would it lead down the path to other deviant-ish activities? 

Was masturbating in front of her a gateway activity?

She’d told him she wanted him to do what he normally did, and when he heard that, Sherlock drew a blank. What _did_ he normally do? Not masturbate, that’s what. At his creased brow expression, she suggested maybe the shower, or the sofa, or the bed; standing, sitting, lying down—

—did men _do_ this in all those places? Lestrade? John? _Mycroft?_ Sherlock barely repressed a shudder. He never knew! Oh, he knew men pleasured themselves, he’d just never fully considered that other men simply wouldn’t wank off, that he was the abnormal one, and now every surface of the world was suspect.

And what could Molly possibly get from this? What enjoyment could she possibly derive from watching him bring himself to orgasm? There was no logical reason that it should do anything for her. She would be an observer. Nothing more. She’d simply be watching him do this to himself, watching his motions, watching his expressions, hearing whatever sounds he happened to make . . .

It was all too much.

Sherlock wasn’t self-conscious, he kept telling himself, but his erection waned in his hand.

To her credit, Molly didn’t say anything about that. When he never really came up with his ‘normal place’, she proposed just going to bed. They’d kissed—that was normal; they stripped —that was normal; they caressed and fondled and engaged in all the other typical foreplay—that was normal; he’d gotten an erection—that was normal; Molly asked again if he would masturbate for her—

That was not normal, and although he’d managed to oblige her for a short amount of time, Sherlock’s brain bogged down with too many questions that couldn’t be answered, and he stopped.

Molly scooted closer, and he wanted to curl against the heat of her. He wanted to apologize, he wanted to not apologize, he wanted to just do what they normally did and forget this whole situation, since he obviously couldn’t do something every male on the planet did on a regular basis—

“Will you sit up, ‘Lock?” she whispered. 

Sometimes she called him ‘Lock, only here in the bedroom, only for his ears. He liked it, a private word for just the two of them.  
Sherlock complied, even though she didn’t explain herself.

Molly propped the pillows up against the headboard, then on her hands and knees crawled behind him. She sat between him and the pillows, and tugged him backwards until he rested against her, back to chest. He was positioned between her legs.

This didn’t make him any less uncomfortable, nor did his erection return.

Molly ran her hands over his chest and abdomen. Her breath was warm and moist on his shoulder—abruptly she readjusted herself so she was more upright, and he was just a bit more prone. Now he could rest his head on her collarbone, against her neck. That was nice.

“I love seeing you like this,” she said into his hair. “The long line of your body. Your skin against the sheets. I like to feel your hipbone—“ she demonstrated by cupping it with her hand, “and I like this bit of hair right here.”

Sherlock loved her hands on him and relaxed. He let his hands rest comfortably on her legs.

Her fingers gently tugged the smattering of chest hair near his right nipple. She fell silent then, but continued to caress him, even dipping close to his cock, her fingers sliding on the darker hair at his pubis. 

She never touched him more intimately than that, but his erection returned.

Sherlock tensed minutely. Would she ask him to try again? Would he disappoint her again—that was ridiculous, he shouldn’t worry about disappointing her, he was perfectly within his rights to not want to wank off in front of someone, even if they asked him to and even if he wanted to please her—

“Why don’t you show me how you like it?” she asked. “You don’t have to do it yourself; I’ll have my hand on you and you can guide me . . .”

She demonstrated by gently taking his erection in hand. It felt good, but her touch was soft; she obviously wanted him to put his hand over hers to direct the pressure and speed to make it best for himself—

His right hand trembled as he started to comply.

“’Lock, it’s just an experiment,” Molly said quietly.

Those were magic words. 

Of course it was! She needed to understand how he pleasured himself! She needed to study his bodily responses, needed to have deeper knowledge of his most intimate moment—Sherlock suddenly understood. It made _sense_ now.

In the end he used his own hand, like a normal man. He still didn’t make much noise, although Molly did, gasping from vicarious pleasure quietly in his ear as she watched. He felt his cock grow harder at her sounds, and that did make him moan. He knew she saw him apply more attention to his foreskin, allowing it to slip over the head of his cock more frequently than she typically did, and somewhere, in the far reaches of his mind, he wondered how she would use that new information.

Molly had asked him to masturbate for her, but she didn’t seem to be able to not touch him—one hand gripping the hipbone she’d mentioned previously; the other splayed on his abdomen—as his pleasure escalated. She even stopped him completely, once, catching his right wrist and drawing his hand back so she could coat the palm of his hand and each finger in saliva. Sherlock had a close up view of her lips around his digits and moaned at the sight. 

He dropped his hand back to his cock and the warm wet friction was glorious. 

Then she closed her hand over his, the opposite of what she suggested earlier. She didn’t dictate anything; he was still completely in control of his own pleasure. But the feel of her hand on his, mimicking his movements, provided just enough stimulation that Sherlock felt an orgasm rushing up from his core, shutting down all thoughts. 

He arched and came with a groaning cry, ejaculating over his fist. Somewhere he heard Molly cry out too. Slowly the room came back into focus as his senses returned.

Molly released him and carefully used a tissue to mop up the pooled semen on his belly—the times Sherlock had cleaned himself he’d used a damp cloth, so dry was a new sensation. He could feel the bit of remaining residue desiccating to a film on his skin. Maybe this was why men jerked off in the shower? Less clean up? He would seriously have to consider trying that, just for the ease of it—because he felt too weak to move. Sherlock felt blissfully warm and comfortable lying back against her.

She pressed a kiss into the side of his head, near his temple. 

“Thank you,” she said.

He should thank her. He should offer to do something to her—she was obviously aroused by what he just did. But Molly didn’t seem upset she hadn’t orgasmed tonight; she held him and kissed him again and didn’t seem impatient or put out. He promised himself that he would make it up to her.

He would thank her, and propose to masturbate for her again—maybe in the shower!—and some night he spoil her by pleasuring her anyway she liked, as often as she liked. 

He would do all those things. But now he was sliding closer into the security of warmth and sleep. Molly climbed out from behind him and settled him under sheets and blankets properly. She pressed close—that was nice—and kissed him on the mouth—that was nicer—and whispered, 

“Thank you, ‘Lock,” again, and then he drifted to sleep, sated. 

_fin._


End file.
